


You've Got Me In Chains For Your Love

by Reign_of_Glory



Series: It's Possible to Break Free [1]
Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Bit of Hurt/Comfort but not much, Everyone Has Issues, Gen, Some are not, Some parents are good, but she feels bad, chandler is being an ass, duke deserves better, i gave duke and chandler siblings, mom friend mac, tw - bulimia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:21:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23270068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reign_of_Glory/pseuds/Reign_of_Glory
Summary: And Heather… Was she that terrible to other people? Was she one of the bad people?She didn’t want that question answered, for she feared that the answer was yes.
Series: It's Possible to Break Free [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1689469
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	1. It Can Be Too Much To Bear

Heather Duke had never been particularly gullible. 

Sure, she’d listen to her friends. She was a teenager; she was bound to succumb to peer pressure at some point. But she also hadn’t expected her friends to be some of the worst people she’d ever met. 

She didn’t really believe that. It just made her feel better. 

* * *

The triad of girls was in the bathroom of their high school, huddled together. It was their first day of high school, and it would be an understatement to say that they were merely scared. No, this was more than fear. They were freshmen. In other terms, they were fresh _meat_ for the upperclassmen. 

None of the Heathers quite liked that. 

Heather Chandler’s reaction was something expected of her. She had a fiery personality, and she would blaze through the crowds. She would hope that they would move in fear of being burned. She would be a wall of fire surrounding her friends - protecting them from what might have gone through a wall of any other substance. 

Heather McNamara didn’t understand all of what the prospect of ‘high school’ entailed. She knew she would be surrounded by many more people than had been at her junior high school, but she had already survived the jump from elementary school to junior high school. Surely just one more leap couldn’t be all that terrible! 

And then there was Heather Duke. A girl who had intellect far superior to most her age. Even some of the upperclassmen didn’t understand her speech at times due to its formality. An upside of her intelligence was how she could understand the inner working of students’ minds, how they were thinking. She understood what their group needed to do if they weren’t to be crushed as they were in junior high school. 

Chandler understood it as well, and the two girls would stay up late into the night conversing about the prospect. The only way to avoid being buried was to climb to the top. The only way to protect themselves was to avoid being buried. And if that resulted in the trio becoming people with questionable moral compasses, so be it. 

* * *

Why had she believed Thomas when he had told her she was beautiful? It was clear now, as Heather glared into a mirror, that she wasn’t. She had a few blemishes, and who liked red hair? She was short; didn’t everyone want a tall lady? That was why Mac had so many men after her. Because she was tall. 

Heather ran her hand through her red tresses with an angry sigh. Her eyes were okay-looking, she supposed. They were average. A hazel that would be pretty on any other person, but on her, it appeared quite _blah_. Heather wanted to wear colours that reflected boldness rather than green. Green always blended in. Green was the colour of nature, of the trees outside her window. _I guess,_ Heather thought, glaring at the mirror, _I should be happy that I don’t have to wear brown._

She was more inclined to believe her friends, anyway, rather than some boy who she’d only dated because Chandler had mentioned that he’d be a better fuck than most. Heather wasn’t interested in that; she was still a virgin. She dated for status because she knew about giving off impressions. Thomas had influence. People would believe him. If he said that she was beautiful, it didn’t matter what she thought. _They_ would think that she was beautiful. That was what mattered, wasn’t it? 

* * *

“I’ve been thinking about losing some weight. Heather, a penny for your thoughts?” 

Heather’s head snapped up from her book to take a glance at her friend. She personally thought that Heather Chandler looked fine anytime, but she narrowed her eyes in a precise imitation of scrutiny. “I don’t know, aren’t you fine?” she asked, closing her copy of Wuthering Heights. 

Chandler’s brow furrowed slightly, and Heather could see her biting her lip in what would have to be discomfort. “I mean, _I_ think so, and _Dad_ thinks so.” She paused, fiddling with the scrunchie on her wrist. It was a pretty shade of pink, the same shade as Heather McNamara’s lip gloss, and it was a nice change from her usual red. Heather knew that the red was still there, though, hiding on her wrist. “But Mom doesn’t think so. And, y’know, she’s usually right about these things.” 

“Eat less?” Mac suggested from where she was knitting. “That’s always a sure way to lose weight!” 

Heather refrained from mentioning that not eating was also dangerous - and starvation was a particularly painful way to die. She knew that; she’d read up on it. Starvation caused your body to pretty much eat itself. She _wanted_ to tell Chandler, ‘Fuck your mother, she doesn’t know anything!’ 

She didn’t, though. That would just cause them to stop talking about this, and it was an important subject to articulate. Heather soon phrased another question in her mind, and she shot it at the slightly taller blonde: “Has your mother mentioned it in front of Elizabeth? What does Elizabeth think?” 

Chandler shrugged, sitting down on the couch and leaning on Heather. “I don’t know. I don’t think Lizzie could ever be out of shape.” All three of them thought Elizabeth Chandler to be a perfect little human, after all. “But,” Chandler continued, “I don’t think she’d understand, even if Mom had brought it up. She’s only a kindergartener. She’d probably tell me to eat more chocolate.” A smile crossed the freckled blonde’s face as she spoke about her sister, causing something to well up in Heather’s chest. What it was, she didn’t know, exactly. She wanted to be able to have that smile on her face when thinking about _her_ brother. Charles wasn’t a nice person, nor was he as adorable as Elizabeth was. He was eighteen, a senior at Westerburg High School, and he went out of his way to torment Heather at school. She frowned as she thought about it. 

While her friends could bitch about their parents, even though they rarely did, Heather couldn’t. Her parents were relatively nice people; they took care of her, they loved her, and they taught her life lessons. She, however, could bitch about Charles. She was the only person in her friend group with a shitty sibling. He couldn’t find enough to tease her about, it seemed. Her weight, her height, her appearance. While Elizabeth thought her sister was practically Mother Teresa, perfect in all ways, Charles seemed to want to wipe _his_ sibling from the face of the earth. It would only make sense that Heather might want to eradicate Charles from the world, but she didn’t. She only wished he was a bit more like Elizabeth. 

“But really,” Chandler said again, frowning. “What do you think?” The blonde glanced down at herself, almost if she were judging her weight from where she stood. Heather narrowed her eyes, trying not to roll them. She thought that her friend looked fine. She could pick her up; clearly she wasn’t overweight. Unless… Heather’s thoughts took a different track, a side path, if you please. If Chandler wasn’t underweight yet she could pick her up, did that mean that Heather herself was overweight? Maybe _she_ needed to lose weight instead. 

And what were ways she could do that? She would ponder that as she left her friend’s house, walking home for dinner. She was seventeen; she should have been able to have dinner by herself, but alas, that was not the case with her parents. Sometimes, she wished she had Heather’s parents or Heather’s parents, if only so she could do whatever she liked. 

Her parents made her eat, articulating something about her being a ‘growing girl’ and needing to ‘eat lots of healthy food’. It was utter bullshit. If Heather wasn’t hungry - although that was a lie - she should have been able to eat however she liked. Even if that meant not eating at all. 

That night, Heather tuned her radio to Hot Probs. It was a station that pretty much anyone could relate to, and that night, a person called in with a problem that sounded as if it could be Heather’s solution. She didn’t hear anything else the girl said after, ‘throwing up my food makes me not digest it, but it also leaves me hungry’. Bingo. 

* * *

“Grow up, Heather. Bulimia’s so ‘87.” 

Heather Duke grunted as she leaned over the toilet bowl, emptying her lunch once more. Cheers. She was actually doing it. Originally, she had talked the idea over with Chandler, who, in a similar fashion to the words she had just said, had declined. Oh well, Heather thought, better for her. If Chandler wasn’t such an asshole about it, about _everything_ , maybe she would feel better about this. 

Still, with the person she aspired to be like shooting her a side-eye from where she applied lipstick by the mirror, she couldn’t help but feel as if she was doing something wrong. 

“Maybe you should see a doctor, Heather.” It was a voice from above her, right as hands reached down to pull her hair away from her face. Veronica. She was a Heather in all but name, and she was nicer than they were, too. If Heather were to give them all a title, she would give Veronica the title of ‘Saviour’. Or perhaps ‘Helper’. She seemed to both save and help quite often. 

“Yeah, maybe I should,” Heather mumbled around her finger. It probably didn’t sound as she meant it to. It had probably come out as an unintelligible mumble, and she would pray that it didn’t sound like anything she could be made fun of later. Still, she hoped that Veronica could hear the sarcasm dripping from her words. Veronica hadn’t been there on the night of that fateful evening at Heather Chandler’s house; Veronica hadn’t given her input. Veronica didn’t understand what it was like. 

Veronica was Chandler’s favourite, anyway. At least, that was how it appeared. She was smart, could forge anyone’s handwriting, and she was snarky. How _couldn’t_ the brunette be Chandler’s favourite? Although Heather had two out of the three things that seemed to define Veronica, she didn’t have the unspoken fourth: beauty. 

That was another reason for her decision. All models she saw were thin; none of them had the slight pudginess that she had. Hell, Mac had the potential to be a model in the future, with her height and build. Heather, while she didn’t wish to go into that career field, had the understanding that if she did want to become a model, she would never be able to. 

Veronica’s soft hand rubbed her back as she hurled once more, suddenly feeling even worse than before. It could have just been the vomiting sensation, which was not pleasant at all, but she knew it was emotional stress weighing her down, too. 

* * *

Heather loved reading. It could make a person forget all about their troubles and just fall into a new world. She utilised her books quite often, and she could hardly ever be caught without one. This wouldn't be one of those times; she was bent over a copy of Wuthering Heights as she sat on a bench in a park. It took a lot to make Heather glance up from a book she was reading, and it was near impossible - she became so engrossed in the story that she was barely aware of her own surroundings. 

Still, Heather Chandler could manage to do anything. Heather could hear the younger girl’s footsteps coming from far down the concrete trail near her, but she gritted her teeth and carried on with the romance of Catherine and Heathcliff. She should have grown bored of Wuthering Heights by now, but she hadn’t. She’d been reading Moby-Dick recently, anyway. 

“Walk with me?” 

Heather glanced up, green eyes meeting grey eyes. She hadn’t been anticipating that question in particular. She still tried to avoid Heather Chandler, not knowing how to talk to her after her bulimia comment. She couldn’t say no, though. She didn’t know how to say no to her friends. “Sure,” she said slowly, almost hesitantly, as she closed her book and stood up from the park bench. “How did you know I would be here?” 

“Old habits die hard,” Chandler replied, keeping her head up and walking forward, the heels of her boots clicking on the concrete trail. Heather thought, for a moment, that the other girl might have a soul when she extended her hand, turning around to face Heather. “Come on,” she said softly. 

Heather took her friend’s hand, slowly walking behind her and keeping her head down as she did so. She didn’t want to see the other girl’s face. She kept her gaze glued onto her mary janes as she trekked the path, her fists clenching involuntarily. The breeze cut into her skin, making her wish she had brought a coat. 

Almost as if she had heard her thoughts, Chandler unlinked their fingers, shrugged off her cardigan, and handed it to Heather without a word. That set off red flags in Heather’s mind. Chandler was selfish. She, too, was probably cold. Then why would she hand over the only article of clothing protecting her arms from the wind? She was planning something. Heather bit her lip, glancing up, trying to read Chandler’s expression. What the hell was going on? 

Those grey eyes betrayed nothing, however, not a sliver of emotion at all. Chandler’s lips were pressed together tightly, almost as if she had stopped herself from saying something. “Why?” Heather asked her, refusing to take the cardigan. Any other person would likely have taken advantage of such an offer. Heather knew better. She kept a mask of indifference on her face, but she didn’t trust herself with it. She had emotions, unlike Chandler. 

“Why not?” said the slightly taller girl, lips curving into a smile that was not reflected in her eyes. God, Heather could get lost in her eyes. Each Heather had something that Heather Duke admired. For Veronica, it was her bone structure. Veronica’s bone structure was utterly flawless. McNamara had muscles. Serious muscles. And her spirit was great, too. Heather Chandler’s eyes were what intrigued Duke. They were a shade of grey that she didn’t know could exist in human eyes and still look human - at least, sometimes. Only on rare occasions did those eyes look human. 

Chandler crossed her arms over her chest and stopped moving, only smiling a smile that made Heather’s blood run cold. “I said, dear Heather, why not? Were you listening?” Her tone carried an undertone of something dark, something Heather did not want to hear, but she felt her feet rooted to the spot as she nodded slowly, her tongue refusing her permission to talk. 

“Cat got your tongue?” Chandler asked, her voice still quiet but no longer soft. Heather dared herself to look the other girl in the eyes, lifting her chin to make herself appear taller. She didn't want to admit her fear of this girl. She found herself walking forward until the two girls had only a few inches of space between them. 

“Only for a moment,” she responded, trying to keep her voice level. She wanted to leave. For once, she internally praised her mother for giving her a curfew. It was just her luck that her curfew wasn’t for two hours. “Really, Heather, it’s not like you to sacrifice your warmth for mine. Cut to the chase.” She paused, inhaling. A cardigan wouldn’t matter to any other person; they would be over it by now. Only the two of them would argue over something like this. Heather because she felt there was an underlying meaning, and Chandler because she was just that petty. “What was the meaning behind the cardigan?” 

Chandler’s smile faded. “You seemed cold,” she offered, shrugging, “But I’ll put it back on if you want.” Something glinted in her grey eyes. “Just thought, y’know, with all that happened earlier, you’d want something to cover up your arms. You’re clearly insecure about it.” 

_Oh. That’s what this is about._ Heather backed away from Chandler as the blonde slipped the cardigan back on. “It’s obvious, really,” Chandler continued, taking a step forward. “You’re always wearing that god-awful blazer, it’s easy to see that you’re insecure about something. I think I’ve figured it out.” She paused, but it was likely only for emotional effect. Heather glanced around, fully aware that she could escape the situation if she wanted. There was a part of her that wanted to stay, though; a small, strong part of her that wanted to know how the girl she had once been best friends with had turned into such a heartless bitch. “You’re insecure about your body. ‘Cause you’re fat.” She said the words bluntly, without emotion. Nearly everything she did was without emotion these days. 

Heather would have been lying if she had said that Chandler’s words didn’t bother her. Had she been arguing with anyone else, she would have retaliated, perhaps thrown her book at them. But she couldn’t bring herself to show her anger. Perhaps she wished to be emotionless, too. “You’re right,” she said, clutching _Wuthering Heights_ to her chest. “You’re completely right. It doesn’t make it any better that you’re right, but you are. Now, I’ve got to go. My mother told me that she would have dinner finished by five thirty. It’s five twenty-five.” A lie. She’d left the house before her mother had arrived home from work. 

Anything to get away from the situation at hand. 

“Alright,” Chandler said nonchalantly, gaze catching on a red cardinal taking flight next to the girls. “If it’s because you can’t bear to be near me, I understand wholly. Most people can’t, after all. I’m too much for them to take in. Too beautiful. I can see how that would hurt your ego, Heather.” The other girl kept talking, but Heather was no longer listening. She turned, her knuckles whitening as she tightened her grip on her book, and she began to walk away. How had she become friends with such terrible people? Surely Mac and Veronica thought the same. And Heather… Was she that terrible to other people? Was she one of the bad people? 

She didn’t want that question answered, for she feared that the answer was yes. 


	2. Every Rose Has Its Thorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heather McNamara knows something is up and enlists Veronica in her quest to help Heather Duke.

Heather McNamara could tell something was up. 

Veronica was the only thing holding their group together, and even that bond was weakening. Heather wanted to talk to Duke about why she suddenly wouldn’t talk to anyone, but it was proving impossible. Chandler would only talk to her in small sentences that were devoid of emotion, and that wasn’t going to help her. Especially not if most of those sentences were complaints about the student body. She needed to talk to Veronica, then. It wasn’t as if Veronica would like to listen to her issues, but she didn't have anyone else to talk to. 

Heather’s parents were getting a divorce, and she hated change. She was aware that change had to happen, that otherwise life would be boring, but that did not change anything. Heather had hated changing schools; it had been a huge change in her life. She hadn’t even liked it when she and her friends were in second grade and Chandler had gotten a haircut. The little changes bothered her because they could easily shift into colossal changes that couldn’t be undone. 

Like her parents’ divorce. That was one of those colossal changes. It had started out with small disagreements - her father was going to the bar too much, he was being unfaithful, something like that. Heather didn’t know if that was true. Her father was a man with a mellow temper, and his reaction to her mother’s accusations was merely to drink. That was fine and all, Heather thought, because he didn’t get drunk. Heather found that to be one of her father’s best qualities. Perhaps it was because she’d seen drunk adults before, but perhaps it was also because she’d been in the same room as drunken teenagers and she didn’t enjoy that. 

Recently, Heather had been lacking enjoyment about quite a few things. 

“Veronica?” 

It was a new day, she decided as she saw Veronica approaching her locker. She’d decided to wait at the brunette’s locker for her, and she was glad she had - Veronica was alone, for the most part. Heather didn’t count Martha. Martha wouldn’t care too much about what she was going to say. She let her gaze wash over the girls, taking in Veronica’s chocolate-coloured hair, her mocha eyes, and the slight flush on her cheeks from the wind. Although Veronica liked to tell everyone else how beautiful they were - sometimes in a sardonic way - she lacked notice of her own beauty. 

“Heather? What are you doing at my locker?” 

Heather glanced around in a way that could be classified as suspicious, fiddling with the yellow scrunchie on her wrist. She could have reached into her pocket and found something else to fiddle with, but the scrunchie was the closest object available. “You see,” she said, leaning with her back against Veronica’s locker, “something isn’t right with Heather. Duke, I mean,” she specified at the slight confusion flickering in Veronica’s eyes. “She’s quieter than usual, and I guess, she’s not as sweet as she usually is.” Only Heather McNamara would use the word ‘sweet’ to describe Duke. The two girls, ‘Subway Heathers’, as Veronica had once dubbed them, got along quite well. Duke’s intelligent mind complimented Heather’s imaginative one, and the two used to get up to many shenanigans. “I miss her,” Heather admitted. 

Martha’s carefree smile slowly faded as Veronica’s shoulders drooped. “Yeah, I noticed something was up,” the tall brunette offered, her expression turning from one of pleasant surprise to one of slight sadness. “I can see if she’ll talk to me about it.” Martha shot a glance at Heather, but the blonde shook her head. _Not now,_ she tried to tell her with her gaze. _Now’s not the time._

She moved from her spot in front of Veronica’s locker and allowed the girl to grab her belongings. Heather glanced down at her fingernails, manicured with a French tip, that tapped her other hand as she waited. Veronica would be able to check on Duke during their first period class, one that Heather, Martha, Veronica, and Duke shared. Maybe Duke would be more open to sharing without anyone else crowding her. 

* * *

“Heather?” Heather was surprised to hear her name echoed by a different girl, a new girl. She didn’t recognise her save for roll call earlier in class. What had her name been? She was silent, trying to remember how to greet the slightly smaller redhead. 

Thankfully, a different Heather came to her rescue. “Hello!” Chandler said, her voice soft. “Which one of us were you talking to?” 

“Either, really,” said the new girl. “I… I’m new here,” she offered, glancing up at the two taller girls. Heather shot Chandler a glance, looking down at her friend. The freckled blonde shrugged in a way that was barely noticeable. “I noticed… I noticed that we all share the same name,” the redhead said after a moment of hesitation. “I’m Heather, too. Heather Duke.” She smiled. 

The carefree smile on Heather Duke’s face was shared by the other two as they realised what she was implying. “That’s so neat!” Heather exclaimed, her hazel eyes lighting up. “And you sit by Heather, too, don’t you?” 

Duke nodded in a fashion that was almost shy, but not quite. “Yes, I do.” She fiddled with a forest-green bracelet on one of her wrists. “I wanted to get to know you guys; I don’t have any friends yet.” 

Chandler beamed at her. “I’m happy you do! Heather and I… We stick together, y’know? Like glue!” She clasped her hands together and tried pulling them away to no avail, an imitation of the glue sticking them together. “It’s so cool to have another friend.” 

Heather had noticed that Duke hadn’t stated that she wanted to be friends - rather, it had been implied. Did that mean something? “What school did you go to before?” she asked, raising her hand to shield her face as the sun moved to shoot a glare into her eyes. 

“I was homeschooled,” Duke admitted, “so I guess it’s really different being here.” Her gaze left the two other Heathers and caught on two brunettes running across the playground. Heather recognised one of them easily: Martha Dunnstock, the girl who’d kissed Ram a few years prior on the kickball field. She would never admit it openly, but she was a little jealous that the other girl had already kissed a boy! She was really mature. 

The other brunette was really tall, about her own height. Duke brought her glance back to Heather and Chandler before she could get a better glance, though, and the easygoing smile returned. “I guess I know a few people from my synagogue.” 

The whistle signalling the end of recess echoed around the playground, and Heather could see Chandler’s shoulders slump. She’d been looking forward to playing tag. Heather had no idea what exactly a synagogue was, but she extended a hand to Heather Duke. “Come on, friend,” she said happily, “Let’s get back to class.” 

* * *

Lunchtime. Usually, the word filled Heather with joy. Today, though, she was weighed down. Not only was it bean soup day, but she also didn’t enjoy seeing Duke barely eat anything - or throw it up later if she did. 

She had nearly been moping (but Heather McNamara didn’t mope, _no_ , McNamaras didn’t mope) when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t even need to glance at the manicured fingernails to know that it was Chandler. The pressure was always the same with the other blonde. Light, as to not scare her by accident, but firm enough so that her hand didn’t fall off. “Hi, Heather,” said the other girl, her voice listless as she stood behind Heather in the lunch line. 

“Hi,” Heather responded, shooting a glance at Chandler. She wasn’t looking up, so Heather couldn’t meet her eyes. “I hate to ask, but… Are you alright?” She shouldn’t have hated to ask. She shouldn’t have been so scared to ask. But she was. Everything was so much easier with Duke. Duke usually shared how she felt. It was usually easy to predict how Duke would react. She was like water: always adapting, but never truly changing. 

If only Chandler were like that. She was like fire, barely contained behind a wall of ice. Once that ice was broken, melted, whatever… the fire came out. She didn’t lift her head to glare at Heather, though, and that alone made her worries begin to fade. “I’m fine.” 

That was a lie. It was obvious, and if it hadn’t been Heather’s turn to receive her lunch, she would have called her friend out on it. However, the lunch lady had called out, “Next,” and she had her attention torn away from the other girl. 

The tension at the lunch table was the type of tension that was present and huge, but it was also avoidable. Duke kept her face buried in a book - Moby-Dick, from what Heather could tell. It was a book that she found boring, but if it could take Duke’s attention away from whatever was bothering her, so be it. Veronica was sitting next to Duke, her arm wrapped protectively around the smaller girl as she shot a glare at Chandler. Heather hadn’t been aware that Veronica could act so cold. She was usually so warm. Chandler refused to look up from her tray, where she was stabbing a bean repeatedly with a fork. She wasn’t even talking, which was unusual for her. 

Still, if no one was talking, and if only Veronica and Heather were looking at people, the tension would be avoided. Heather sipped her soup from her spoon, cringing at the taste. It really wasn’t that terrible compared to most of the food served, but she had never enjoyed bean soup. It was bland, and she itched for food with actual flavour. At least it gave Heather something to do with her mouth. 

* * *

After school, she opted to head to Chandler’s house. The girl drove her home from school every day, so why couldn’t she head over? She was pleased to get a response out of her, even if it was just an impassive, “whatever.” She had managed to get the blonde to speak again, which was an improvement. Heather had climbed into the passenger seat of Chandler’s Porsche with a determined look on her face, and she had decided to fiddle with the radio. 

The other girl made no move to stop her as they drove, just staring down the road in a lethargic fashion. Heather hadn’t had a specific type of song that she wanted to listen to, but she enjoyed Queen. When she heard the intro to “Under Pressure”, she felt a smile cross her features. It was the first song she had learned to play on guitar, and the ecstatic expressions on her friends’ faces at the time had caused the song to bring back jubilous memories. 

“I’m going to stop by 7-Eleven first. Are you coming with me or staying in the car?” 

The sound of her friend’s voice caused Heather to come back to the present with a jolt. “Oh. I’ll just stay in the car.” She glanced at Chandler, observing her posture. Straight, as usual. Stiff, as usual. There was something off, though, and she didn’t know what exactly it was. 

Chandler came out of the store a few moments later, holding a bag of Corn Nuts in one hard, a Mountain Dew in the other, and a Coke in the crook of her arm. She handed Heather the Mountain Dew, which was gratefully accepted, and she set the Coke in her car’s cup holder. Heather sighed as she watched Chandler open the bag of Corn Nuts, muttering to herself as she did so. _“Why do they use such a weird material?”_ she heard her say, and she had to bite back a few giggles. 

Chandler set the Corn Nuts in between the two girls, clearly an offering for Heather to grab some if she wished to. Heather was hungry, but she was also picky. Corn Nuts weren’t her favourite, and she knew that there would be chocolate at Chandler’s house. The other girl put the car in reverse and began backing out as Mac fiddled with the radio once more. 

She enjoyed having something to fiddle with. Heather was aware that fidgeting with items was an action that both of them used to feel better, but Heather did it just because it was nice. She didn’t really control it too much. She settled on a song that had a catchy tune and leaned back, taking a sip of her Mountain Dew and allowing the fizzy bubbles to settle on her tongue. 

She kept her gaze on Chandler as they drove, aware that her friend was taking the long way home rather than a shortcut they’d used since Heather Duke got her driver’s license. She noticed how Chandler’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel after the singer began to sing. The band was Poison, Heather remembered. The song was a recent release, at least compared to Under Pressure. 

_“Did my words not come out right? Though I tried not to hurt you Though I tried.”_

For the first time that day, Heather was able to see Chandler’s eyes. Perhaps she’d been stopping herself from glancing at her friend’s eyes earlier, knowing that she would have seen nothing. Now, she saw what would have to be anguish combatting something else in those secretive grey eyes. Chandler couldn’t see her looking; her eyes were on the road. Still, Heather wondered if she felt her gaze on her. 

_“Like a knife that cuts you, that wound heals But the scar, the scar remains.”_

Heather didn’t like the tone that the song had taken. It had started out less emotional. It wasn’t the sound of the music that she wasn’t enjoying anymore; she still enjoyed that. No, it was the fact that the lyrics were so upsetting. Words like that could bring emotions out in anyone, even the most sheltered. 

The two pulled into the Chandlers’ driveway, and the car stopped. Chandler didn’t move, her hands still tightly wrapped around the steering wheel as she gazed forward with an incomprehensible look on her face. Heather placed a hand on her shoulder, and surprise sparked in her when the other girl didn’t respond. 

_“To hear that tears me up inside And to see you cuts me like a knife.”_

Chandler’s posture relaxed, her shoulders hunching as she crossed her arms on the wheel and rested her head on them. “Heather?” Heather asked, reaching out her other hand. _Shit._ This hadn’t ever happened. Heather Chandler didn’t act like this. 

Mac rubbed Chandler’s shoulder with one hand while brushing her hair back with the other. She thought for a moment that the other girl was merely tired, but that was clearly not the case. Not when she tensed up with a sudden whimper. “Heather,” Heather tried again, “Answer me.” 

The smaller blonde shook her head and opened the car door, grabbing her Coke and Corn Nuts as she exited the vehicle. Mac took her Mountain Dew and followed, reluctantly keeping her distance. The two girls entered the house, greeted by no one. “Elizabeth?” Chandler ventured, and something inside of Heather broke when she heard Chandler’s voice break. They needed to talk. 

She followed Chandler to her room, watched blankly as the door was locked, and couldn’t help but stiffen slightly when arms wrapped around her. She hadn’t hugged Chandler in what felt like years, and it had certainly been longer since Chandler had initiated a hug. Heather glanced down and saw that Chandler had buried her face in her chest and was shaking. “Hey,” she said quietly, running her fingers through her friend’s hair. “It’s okay.” 

There was a moment of silence where Chandler held her breath, but she let out a whimper after. “It’s _not_ fucking okay.” Her voice was thick with tears, and Heather pulled her closer. “I want…” Her voice broke and she tightened her grip on Heather. Heather was pleased that her friend was finally allowing someone to see through her, but she was also devastated that it had happened in this manner. “I want her to be okay,” Chandler whispered. “I want her to not hate me.” 

_What on Earth?_ Heather could name quite a few people who hated Chandler, but she couldn’t name a single one of them who Chandler would actually care about. “Who, Tess?” she asked, using the nickname that Elizabeth had come up with. “You can tell me.” She inhaled, keeping her voice level. Normally, she would have shown more emotion. If it were Duke she were hugging, she would have hugged tighter, shown more care. With Chandler, she had to be careful. She didn’t know how much affection was too much. 

“Heather.” She said it as if it were obvious. “She’s got to hate me. I… I’m a bad person,” Chandler mumbled into Heather’s shirt between sobs, “And I know that. But… But, I don’t know-” she swallowed. “-I guess I thought that I wasn’t _that_ bad to you guys.” 

“What the hell did you do to her?” Heather said, raising her voice from its prior pitch. She didn’t mean for it to be intimidating, but she could feel Chandler flinch. “Hey, are you okay?” What would she have done if this were Veronica? Hell, what would _Veronica_ have done? All the walls had come down, or so it seemed. It was too much for Heather to deal with. 

“I said some things,” Chandler said, as if Heather hadn’t assumed so. “I don't know if I regret it.” She broke the hug, disentangling herself from Heather and laying down on her bed. “And I should regret them.” She beckoned Heather to her. Sighing, Heather made her way to the bed and sat next to Chandler, running a hand through her hair. “I don’t even know why I said it. I think I was concerned at first, y’know. She was cold, so I offered her a cardigan.” Chandler leaned into Heather, and for the first time ever, Heather was tempted to push her away. It all was beginning to come together. Why Veronica had been glaring at Chandler during lunch - she had managed to make Duke explain some of it. Chandler had stopped crying by now, and the only reminder that it had even happened was the trails of mascara left on her cheeks. There was still a sliver of vulnerability in her eyes, though, and that was the only thing that stopped Heather from jerking her arm out of Chandler’s grasp like the other girl was a living flame. “She didn’t trust me.” 

Heather was no longer listening as intently. Once a person got Chandler talking, it could take her a while to get to the main point. After a few minutes of beating around the bush, Chandler added, “I called her fat. And when she said she had to go, I asked if she didn’t want to be around me because I was beautiful.” Heather grunted in response. 

“You idiot,” she said, in a tone that was light enough as to not bring on the tears once more, but also firm enough to incite a point. “She’s sensitive about that; she is a _bulimic_. Why did you say it?” Heather was determined to hear both sides of the story, but for now she wanted to get to the bottom of Chandler’s messed-up motives. 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

She had said it bluntly, and that alone made Heather jerk her arm away. “Yes, it _does_ matter! Heather, Heather is your friend! You can’t just go around saying shit like that and say that it doesn’t matter!” She scooted to the other side of the bed, glaring at the smaller blonde. 

Chandler glared back, but it was half-hearted. “It’s the reason I feel bad about it!” she said in what could be called a whisper-yell. “My mom had said stuff earlier. I’d needed to get out. So I saw Heather. I guess I was just sick of people disliking me.” She pulled her knees to her chest, grimacing slightly. “At least those I care about. And it didn’t _work_ because I can’t watch my goddamn mouth!” 

Her voice had hopped to a higher octave in the last sentence, raising in volume as well as pitch. “And I want her to believe me when I apologise,” Chandler added, her voice quiet again, thick with the tears that she was trying to hide. “‘Cause we used to be friends. And I want us to be friends.” There was a pause. Heather told herself that she wouldn’t say anything. She couldn’t bring herself to. “I want _all_ of us to be friends. 

At that, Heather chuckled drily. “I can hardly imagine you apologising.” She dug her hands into the blankets piled onto the other girl’s bed, grimacing. “But I also hadn’t thought you’d be so heartless as to say that. What’s happened to you?” 

Chandler didn’t respond, so Heather shot a glance at her. She looked like a mess. She _was_ a mess. She was obviously holding back tears, and holding her breath in doing so. When she had to let it out, she mumbled, “Imsorry.” Her words were jumbled as she tried not to cry for the second time that afternoon. 

Heather crawled back to the other side of the bed, wrapping her arms around Chandler. “Hush. Just promise me one thing: You’ll apologise tomorrow.” 

“I promise.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 should be posted by 30 March!


	3. Sorry, Not Sorry, 'Bout What I Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heather Duke's been hurt. Heather McNamara's tried to help. Now it's Heather Chandler's turn to try to glue the pieces back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final bit of this story! I'm going to be making it into a series, though - this isn't the end of it!

Wednesdays had to be the worst possible day known to mankind. Still, they held a bit of hope. Once you reached Wednesday, you were halfway through the school week. Go a little longer, and you only had Thursday and Friday left. Heather thought of it as the peak of the flu she’d had a month prior. Get through the worst of it, and the clouds would part, giving you a clear space to walk through. 

God, she hoped today would be like that. 

Heather wasn’t normally one for walking to school, but her father had been home this week. That alone was a joy to behold, and the fact that he could drive her sister to school? Doubly amazing. She had ridden with them in her father’s car before he’d dropped Elizabeth off at the elementary school, and she left the car then, her lips just barely curved up at the edges as she walked in the rain, allowing her hair to be soaked. Rain was just so charming that she couldn’t have resisted. 

And maybe, just maybe, she was avoiding Heather McNamara. 

It was stupid, really, she mused to herself as she gazed at the path ahead of her, that she had broken down last night. There were other ways to break down, options that were less noticeable than nearly bawling one’s eyes out. But when a person was tired, did they really have a chance in how they expressed their inner turmoil? No, Heather answered her own question, they did not. 

The stairs of Westerburg High School were approaching quickly - rather, she was approaching them, but she didn’t think about it in that manner. They had never appeared so imposing, and Heather had never imagined that she might think they would crush her. Stairs couldn’t crush people. Stairs did the opposite, really. They lifted people up. 

Heather set a foot on the first step, keeping her expression level. Eyes cold, chin up, lips set in a firm line. She’d learned long ago that showing emotion could give people the wrong idea about you - that you could be fucked with. Heather wasn’t an eagle. She’d learned how to fly. 

Her feet carried her into the school, and she was greeting with a soft buzz of chatter. Conversation was in no way out of the ordinary, but the volume of it was. The freckled blonde shot a glance at her swatch and felt her eyes widen slightly as she realised the time. She was early. Heather Chandler was _never_ early. Maybe she’d walked faster than she thought. 

She kept her chin angled upward as she strode into the cafeteria, pleased that there was not a large crowd yet. Nevertheless, it seemed that fate would enjoy spiting her as another woman entered the room. Amidst the jocks stood Ms Fleming, possibly the worst teacher to ever teach at any school in the United States. Heather stifled a grumble, seating herself at a table. It was a table she’d seen before, one she’d become familiar with. It wasn’t where her group of friends sat during lunch, but it was where she’d first met Veronica. A soft smile melted the icy expression on her face before she could stop it, and she let out a melancholic sigh. 

If Ms Fleming had gone to teach at Sherwood Junior High the year she’d entered Westerburg as a freshman, Heather was sure she would have had a much more enjoyable high school experience. That wasn’t to say her experience wasn’t enjoyable. It was not subpar by any means. She merely couldn’t help but wish that it had been _better_. 

Right. And what, pray tell, had made her wish that? She couldn’t place her finger on it, even as she thought about it. Just something about how she was seen, about how she was thought of, about the type of legacy she would leave behind come the end of senior year. There was a sense of nostalgia in her thoughts as she remembered a better time, a time when she’d once been a good person, loved for her personality and not her appearance. 

Maybe it was that. 

* * *

Being a sophomore hadn’t made Heather any more excited for school. She was still below the majority of the students in the sense of hierarchy, and in height, too. Unless she wore heels, she stood at a mere five-foot-two, which was, compared to the older kids, fairly short. 

It didn’t help that in addition to being moderately short, she was also younger than the majority of her grade. Having a summer birthday did that to a person. Still, Heather couldn’t help but feel mature in comparison to her peers as she strolled the halls on a Tuesday, gazing at the jocks who had started a fight with some stoner. That was something else she didn’t fully comprehend, at least not yet. Why escape using weed instead of alcohol? From what the girl had seen, weed didn’t give the same sense of confidence; it didn’t help people _forget_. Was there a practical use in it? 

It would probably be best, she supposed, if she didn’t think those thoughts. So Heather, wary of her surroundings, plastered an - albeit fake - smile on her lips and continued to walk, crossing her arms over her chest as she did so. She was wearing a shirt that accentuated the curves she’d acquired, and paired with a skirt her mother should have prohibited her from wearing, she appeared a bit taller - or a bit more mature, if you were to take it in that manner. 

She would never be able to describe the happiness that came over her when she ran face-first into a person. Had it been any other person, she would have shrieked, maybe ran away, or hit them. But this was Mac. Mac was sunshine incarnate. Mac was a fireplace in the middle of a blizzard. Mac was, in other words, happiness and safety rolled into one amazing person. 

“Hi, Heather,” the taller blonde articulated with a chuckle, pulling her friend closer. “I’m glad you didn’t trip over me.” Mac’s voice was just as warm as the rest of her, and Heather felt her muscles relax. Mac was calming, too. Plus, she smelled good. That was probably a weird thought, but was it such a crime to think cinnamon was a lovely aroma? Heather didn’t think so. 

“Yeah, hi,” she said, disentangling herself from Mac’s arms and shooting a small smile at her friend. “Thanks.” She saw a red-clad shape behind Mac, and her smile widened to a grin. “Hey, Heather!” No matter how her day had begun at home, seeing both of her friends would always lighten her day. Her hand made its way up to the strap of her sunset-coloured backpack, where her thumb would absentmindedly rub back and forth. 

“Hi, Chan,” Heather Duke responded, smiling her own simper at the recognition. Even now, Heather could tell that Duke had the type of personality where she’d always be seen, but she just wouldn’t see it herself. She tried to bring the light to her friend as often as she could, but if Duke was only going to see the darkness, she sometimes had to ask herself if it was really worth the struggle. 

After all, was the happiness of others worth her own? 

* * *

“Heather.” 

She’d zoned out. Heather blinked at the voice and glanced up to see two brunettes had just approached the table. Veronica, yes, was one of them - the knowledge that they were meeting here once more, in a similar fashion, made the corner of her lips quirk up - but the other was just the same person she hadn’t wanted to see. Ms Fleming. She was aware of Veronica’s relation to the old woman, but she didn’t want her day ruined. 

In fact, she realised, Ms Fleming had been the one to say her name. Veronica’s voice was noticeably more gruff, and it had a darker timbre. “Hm?” Heather grunted, just barely lifting her head in order to see the two women better. 

Fleming’s posture shifted, straightening as her mocha-brown eyes met Heather’s grey ones. “Veronica here wanted to talk with you.” Heather raised an eyebrow, exhaling softly as she nodded her agreement. Why Veronica had needed Ms Fleming to practically be a wingwoman was unbeknownst to her, but she’d at least do what her friend wished. That was, in short, Heather’s goal for that day. She was going to follow her friends’ wishes. 

The brunette sat next to her, pulling out a chair with a drawn-out creak. The sound bothered Heather, but she appeared unfazed. Nothing else would break down the walls she’d taken years to build. Nothing else would make tears well up in her eyes. Not today. “What did you need?” Heather asked, her tone bland. Her gaze was as sharp as usual, though, as she glared into Veronica’s dark eyes. 

“I talked to Heather yesterday.” Veronica didn’t clarify which Heather, but it only took a moment for Chandler to understand. She’d been with Mac yesterday, leaving only Duke to chat with Veronica. A sudden wave of bitter emotion took her over, and she was surprised at how raw it felt. It was something she hadn’t felt in a while, save for the night before. 

Heather leaned back in the chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “Did you, now?” The blonde raised an arched eyebrow. “Do tell.” She’d not been able to get a response out of the girl - but she also hadn’t tried talking to her. If she pretended everything was fine, then it was fine. There was no need to get so upset if it was fine. 

Really, though, who was she kidding? It wasn’t fine. 

Veronica spoke once more, placing a hand on Heather’s. There was something about the touch that was comforting, and Heather felt her tense muscles relax. She hadn’t known that she’d needed a bit of comfort, nor was she going to let Veronica know. “I should be angry with you,” Veronica said, her voice soft, “but I also talked with Mac. We’ve all got shit going on in our lives, you know,” she insisted, frowning. Her eyes shimmered, though, and it was clear that the frown hadn’t made its way to her eyes. She was angry, yes, but there was something more. 

Heather exhaled, her breath cool on her own cherry-red lips. “Yeah, I know that.” Her tone was laced with irritability, her gaze piercing. “How do I fucking fix it?” Direct and to the point. That was all Heather asked for. “I don’t want you to be not-angry with me, I want to fix the problem.” It didn’t mean she’d be ‘better’, per se. She would try, but ‘better’ would mean less scathing remarks towards Duke and more ‘Shut up’s. 

She heard a sigh from Veronica, and she didn’t know whether to feel annoyed or offended. Veronica sounded exasperated. It wasn’t Heather’s fault - actually, it was, but she wouldn’t admit it out loud. “Heather.” Heather feigned confusion at that, raising both eyebrows and widening her eyes. Veronica’s eyes, in turn, narrowed. “Be serious.” She took a long inhale that, to Heather, seemed excessive. “You need to talk to her.” 

“Veronica, I’m not an idiot,” Heather retorted, agitated. “I _know_ that. But I…” She groaned, her palm colliding with her forehead. “Do I look like I know what to say?” 

Had she been any less distracted, she would have heard the footsteps coming up behind her. “Heather, Veronica, hi.” If she could have stabbed herself for causing the slight pain in that voice, she would have. Heather Duke annoyed her, yes. Sure, sometimes she just wanted the smaller Heather to shut up. Still, it made something twist in Heather’s chest, knowing that the hurt there had been caused by her own reckless words. 

Sometimes, she didn’t care about what she said. She’d apologise, pretend she was sorry, but she wasn’t. She was sorry, not sorry, if that was a thing. This time, the apology would be real. It would not be for the reasons that it should have been for - Heather should have been apologising because she wanted Heather Duke to know that she cared, that she was sorry she hurt. Heather was apologising not for that reason, but because she didn’t know what else would cease the aching in her heart. 

She barely registered Veronica leaving and Duke sitting in the newly vacated spot. She wouldn’t have noticed Duke slowly getting closer, and it was a wonder that she did. She missed the warmth of Veronica’s hand on her own, but she didn’t want Duke to touch her. Perhaps it was out of guilt, perhaps it was out of disgust. Heather couldn’t say that she was disgusted by Duke, though. If anything, she was disgusted by herself. 

“Are you all right?” 

“Yes, Heather, I’m fine.” Sometimes, Heather reasoned, it was best to lie. If the lies fixed everything, if the lies became reality, was it really so terrible to utter an untruth? She could hardly bring herself to meet Duke’s eyes, but she did so anyway, bringing the icy facade back over her expression. Yes, she would apologise. She merely needed to get it together. This was weakness, and weakness was something she couldn’t have. 

“Well, okay.” She wanted to have weakness, though. “We were going to do our math homework together? The other day?” What had her mother found wrong with weakness? If strength hurt more than weakness, if strength _caused_ weakness, then what was the point of having strength? “Do you mind working on it? We can head to the stairs out front if you want.” 

Heather lifted her head the tiniest amount, stormy grey eyes meeting confused, _scared_ hazel one. Duke’s eyes were more green than anything, but Heather could see small flecks of gold and brown in them. It complimented her hair so well, and Heather wanted to grimace. Heather Duke was the beautiful one. Duke was perfect in so many ways, and Heather was just… She could only find one word that suited her being, but it didn’t seem to fit correctly. Heather wasn’t broken. Still, that word fit her best. 

“Of course,” she said, trying to instill warmth in her voice. She was smiling, and it was fake. It was always fake. “Wherever you’d like to go.” Heather pushed her chair back, inhaling sharply at the noise it made. It was almost like nails down a chalkboard, but not quite. She took her bag from where it had been hanging on the chair and turned to face Duke once more. “Actually,” she added, “I’d like to talk with you. Uh… West wing?” Nobody ever went to the west wing of the school. The two girls would not be seen. 

It wasn’t much like Heather Duke to go along with her crazy ideas, but she did just that. Nodded, said, “okay,” and followed Heather. It was weird, yes, but it wasn’t the highest on her list of worries. 

It wasn't the highest on her list of worries because, as Heather leaned against a locker and gazed at Duke, she worried that she wouldn’t be forgiven. She wasn’t even sure why she wanted to be forgiven. She’d always been a bit of a people-pleaser, but it hadn’t been excessive. Even if Heather Duke didn’t forgive her, she’d still idolise Heather. So why did she feel so strongly about this? 

“I’m a shitty friend,” she began, “and you deserve better than me.” Her smile was gone now, more of a grimace than anything. “So, I’m sorry. It’s not like I’ll be any better, really, but yeah. I’m sorry.” Heather hadn’t meant to cross her arms over her chest, but it was her way of holding herself together. “You should know that true beauty comes from within. Say, for instance, I might look fine on the outside, but what’s inside mars that. You… Jesus.” She shook her head, barely able to meet the other girl’s eyes. Was it jealousy? Heather had never been jealous, and she doubted that it would begin now. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder. 

“Heather,” Chandler said, her voice quiet, “you’re beautiful. Inside _and_ out, more than I could ever hope to be.” She was pretty sure it was true. It was a shitty apology, all in all, but the small smile that graced Duke’s features was mirrored on Chandler’s. 

“It’s not easy to forgive,” Duke began, her eyes appearing darker than they were in the low lighting. “Still. If there’s proof you’re sorry, I’m sure I’ll find a way.” Heather bit back a sigh - she’d known it would be like this. It was clear that Duke didn’t trust herself to speak around Heather; she was hesitating before speaking. “But I’ve got to thank you,” she added, a bit of laughter in her voice. “Now,” she said, checking her swatch, “We’ve only got fifteen minutes to finish our homework.” 

“Right,” Heather agreed, sitting down in front of the locker she’d leaned against. “We’d better get it done, then.” 

Chandler couldn’t help but wish for a better time. Maybe if everything had happened differently, she wouldn’t have been here, forcing out a shitty, half-true apology. Maybe she and Duke would have been best friends, and they would’ve stayed at the bottom of the food chain. But, no, that hadn’t happened, and they had to deal with it. 

Heather Chandler was many things, but nice was not one of them. She was a piranha, a mythic bitch. She’d claw down anyone who stood in her way - even if it caused emotions she had never felt to well up inside her. 

Even if it meant she’d be feared instead of loved. Love wasn’t real, anyway. Fear was so much better. 

**Author's Note:**

> Stay safe from the virus! <3


End file.
